Wilddeórlíc
by Dey'lih
Summary: You've been running your entire life and not once has someone tried to stop you... Why, then, does she?
1. Chapter 1

__**To avoid confusion, this is from Shruikan's POV and its second person perspective.**** The entire story will be in second person, however, I may also do Saphira's POV as well. Maybe.**

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><p><em>Its easier to run away from it all.<em>

You learned this first-hand almost fifty years ago. _That_ day is both your pleasure and your pain, for it was on that day that Galba- your thoughts die out with a flaring pain – you smile ruefully, some of you're bindings even persist in his death. It was that day that _Master's _reign finally came to an end. But it is also the last day you saw _her. _The last you'll ever see of _her_ if you have any say in the matter. This is your resolve. A taint such as yours should not be spread amongst one so undeniably _pure_ and _perfect_. No, you are determined to keep to yourself, and to suffer as much as possible. Though it is only the most meager of repentance, it is all you can give. You do not want death, even _you_ are not that worthless. A time may come when you can properly repent, but, for now, this self-seclusion and pleasure-deprivation are enough.

The days come in the fiery display of morning, and leave in an equally spectacular manner. Everything is inexplicably unmoving and sluggish, the birds fly in slow-motion, the wind creeps across your scales, the trees dance in a make-believe exaggeration of false-movement. Yet, time passes faster than you care to track, days turns to weeks turns to months. Spring, Summer, Fall... Winter.

Winter. A brooding hateful cold so intense that it can only be encapsulated by the barest of minds lacking of any cognition. Even sheltered as you are in your armor of obsidian scales, and with an inferno burning in your chest, you still hide from the spiteful-cold in a vertical black-granite recess – the only thing large enough to shield you properly. Never has there been a more frigid time in all your four hundred years. Never has there been so much... _silence-of-everything_.

Silence, you find, is as deep as eternity, and as corporeal as _nothing - _the _nothing _which fakes materialisticness, not the 'nothing' that doesn't exist. The distinction is almost nonexistent, only through _knowing _can one truly comprehend _nothing_ for what it truly is.

_Crunch, crunch... crunch, crunch. _Snow falls on you from above, disturbed by the wind. You open your eyes, only to snap them shut a half-second later. You count the seconds slowly, then crack open your eyes again. The difference is considerable, instead of snow-blindness you can see almost perfectly. The sun is high somewhere above you, and a soft wind pulls tufts of snow through the air. The leafless black-barked trees in-front of you are juxtaposed to the endless field of white. You focus on the trees for a full minute before opening your eyes fully. A quick glance around reveals nothing, then something glimmers underneath the snow at the base of your recess.

You skillfully climb down the crumbling surface, dislodging only a few hand-sized slabs along the way. At the bottom you snake your head down to where the glimmer had been and breathe heavily onto the snow. It melts and steams until all that's left sitting in the crater is a single roughly-triangular sapphire gem.

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><p><strong>Continue, dont? Review and let me know.<strong>


	2. Chapter 2

Spring. A plethora of new sensations and colors surround you, and for the first time in four weeks you decide to stop running – for surely the distances between you and her are enough. Two behemoth mountains, capped in the steel-blue of ice, flank you, their sheer cliffs offer a protection few things can. The ravine they form winds a path several leagues northeast and a forest of timeless oak and white-ash runs its length. You can hear the faint calls of wolves and goats as well as many other animals you cant identify. Suddenly you, of all things, feel small. You smile at the sensation. The Beors are every bit as magnificent as you remember.

The day passes quickly, you had much to busy yourself with. Like food: three large bears, and a few goats. You lick your lips at the memory, then stop, and force yourself to not feel the contentment of a good meal. Just as you have stopped from feeling any pleasure for the past half-century.

You look around your new home. Nestled in an indescribably deep cut in the northern most ridge, almost five hundred feet in the air. The entrance eventually forms an ellipse though it is only noticeable from a distance. Your half bowl is against the back wall – a hundred-and-a-half paces from the edge. The granite made for a perfect material to mold, you can still feel the heat emanating from the rock. You carefully maneuver the sapphire scale in your mouth and lay it on the rock in-front of you. Why do you feel the need to keep it? As a trophy? As a reminder of what could never be? You shake your head and curl tightly upon yourself.

Or maybe you keep it as a sign of hope.

Hope. The term is something you've never actually contemplated, for it is alien to you. How could you have felt hope when all your life has been spent in chains? You knew nothing but torture and murder – you were both the torturer, and the tortured, the murderer and the murdered. It is unbelievably scary to die, even a dragon as fearless as you is frightened of death. And so, as was just in His world, he made you suffer your own death weekly. Not truly death, for even His magic was not enough to bring the dead back, but close enough all the same.

You know not of hope. But you feel a certain joy for the future, whatever it may be.

Night collapses in on you and you dream.

Just unstructured shadows eclipsing a light, but _something _strikes at your very core. A thrum pulses from formless-shadow to formless-shadow, and they begin to dance. They split apart and dive steeply: _Isolation's ever downward spiral. _Then they twist and turn until a random sequence of spins and false-dives brings them together again: _Fate's gravity like pull toward Wholeness. _The shadows circle gently in an ever constricting, upward-helix: _The Soul's elasticity allowing a closeness never conceived._ The forms finally touch, then they coalesce and meld until only a singular malformed black globule remains: _Chaos, nothing more, nothing less._

The dream breaks as a warmth rushes past you, right against your neck. You find yourself in a half-crouch, teeth bared and fire dancing in your throat. But you see nothing. Moonlight simmers against your scales, and a soft wind sweeps through the cave. With a huff you dismiss the sensation that had all but startled you, as well as the dream.

You lie back down, ignorant of the _two_ glimmering gems beside you.


End file.
